A Prologue of Short Stories

 

"Give It Away" 1983 Bands of America

Summer, 1973 Marlington High School

He reached out to the door and gently removed the nameplate out of the holder along its tracks.  He watched as the nameplate was removed: Mr. Bruce Ferguson, Band Director.  He looked into the empty office, around at the school band room and felt a warm summer breeze move through the windows along the wall on that day in 1973, his first day as the Band Director of Marlington High School. He slid his own nameplate into the holder, the same black plate with indented white lettering, the one that Gordon Rinehart had handed him when he accepted the job.  He slid the nameplate into the frame on the open door and looked at the name and title: Mr. Terren Frenz, Band Director. He took a deep breath, looked around him and all he could think about was that Christmas gift from so long ago..

Christmas, 1948 Canton Ohio

“A miracle ... that’s what it will take, folks, for a white Christmas this year.” The voice boomed from the radio nestled in a corner of their small living room. In the over-articulated, over-dramatized broadcasting tones typical of the radio era, the CBS weather forecaster prattled on about ‘pressed isobars,’ and a ‘low pressure system over the region’ that would keep temperatures in the low forties over the next few days.   

Night had already fallen on Christmas Day when the boy tore the crimson and emerald wrapping from the box and saw its contents glisten, reflecting the colored lights around him. 

Bands of gold, like sunshine, interspersed with streaks of green, blue, and red twisted about him -- all dancing together in a play of lights that can only be experienced beneath a Christ-mas tree. The spectacle was beautiful to him.

He reached into the case and touched it, and he felt the coldness of the smooth brass in his small hands. He lifted it gently and looked at it in awe. The eyes of his aunt filled with moisture as she watched him marvel at the beautiful musical instrument. It was her own cornet that she had used throughout her high school years. She loved that Holton cornet, but she knew that it was now her time to give it away. Her nephew Terry was aglow as he picked up the horn, cradling it in his arms. His very own cornet, his very own!

“Now, you’ve seen me play, Terry. Let me show you again how to do this.” 

And within moments of him opening the gift, he was seated next to his aunt as she demonstrated how to place the mouthpiece properly, how to buzz his lips in such a way as to make the horn sing. 

The radio station in the background transitioned from voices to music, and like a wave of warm velvet, the distinctive sound of Tommy Dorsey’s tune “Until” washed across the room, catching his aunt’s attention and filling the space with something different, something far away.

“I just love that song … just love that song...” She said, still gazing down at her nephew enraptured by his new gift. 

He listened as the distant trombone moved through the melody and heard the lyrics emerging from the face of the radio to float across the room. His was a musical family; The Frenz family didn’t have a lot of money, but they did have a lot of records. Between the radio and record player, sounds of classical, opera, and contemporary jazz music were usually adrift in the Frenz home at 137 Delverne Avenue in Canton. 

“…You were sent from heaven just for me and you were oh! So heavenly...”

“I love you, Terry, so much, I can’t wait to hear you play that for real.” 

She embraced him in a tender hug, wanting to capture that moment, wanting to rest in that moment, wanting to live in that moment, forever. She could not know then just how much that gift of a cornet to her nephew would touch the future lives of thousands of young people and adults. In a very real sense, the world was changed for the better that day by that simple gift of love to a little boy named Terren. Over the course of the next half century, this boy with a cornet would compose songs written with miracles. He would inspire others to look for the miracles hidden within themselves, miracles that they didn’t even know existed. He would use music as a vehicle to create miracle after miracle inside the hearts of the people around him. 

His first notes were a steady ‘C’ scale that he had learned on his aunt’s cornet weeks before. With his natural sense of tone, he recognized when something didn’t sound right and would immediately adjust his embouchure to steady the note. His aunt was the first to notice that he was self-correcting. 

As he played his scale over her shoulder, and the music on the radio drifted between and past them, he caught a glimpse through the kitchen doorway of his dad holding his mom -- and watched them dance together, slowly and gently embracing as they swayed gracefully to the Dorsey tune. 

His Dad had only recently returned home from the Army, returned from the World War that had changed everything and everyone. His Dad listened to the Dorsey tune, listened to his wife breathing in his arms, listened to his son playing scales on the cornet, and listened to the quiet all around them on this holiday night. He was removed by what seemed only moments from places marked by much different sounds: the horrifying rattle of gunfire, the shrieks of terror, the rumbling of distant bombs dropping amid air raid sirens, the wails of suffering -- like hell spilling forth from the ground, the carnage of war.  He knew how lucky he was to be back home with his family and tried not to think of everything – like the faces of some of his buddies that could never come home and have a Christmas again.  

He could still hear these sounds vividly in his head. But now he was home, and he was grateful that he had a family to come home to, a family to adore, to protect, to provide for. He was grateful to be alive. Coming home was a miracle -- like walking into a new life -- and it would be a life that he would never take for granted. 

He had crossed a bridge. On one side loomed the horrors of war and so much loss. On the oth-er, awaited this scene of family, of love, of hope, of peace, of togetherness. He had walked across that bridge in what seemed the briefest of moments – the distance between his past and present could be measured by a few breaths of air. Underneath his bed in the adjacent room was a small olive drab box that contained his purple heart, bronze star, and other campaign medals from his military service, now honorably discharged.  He kept them there and it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about.  The past was the past. It was better for him to remain in the present and keep moving forward. 

“Hey that’s really good Terry, keep doing that.” His aunt smiled as she said this. She could rec-ognize a good tone when she heard it. 

“Your teacher is going to be Mr. Strausser, Mr. William Strausser. You’re going to learn so much from him, he is amazing Terry.”

The boy kept playing, experimenting with fingerings. Within a few minutes, he had come close to developing a full chromatic scale. 

“Don’t be shy with him, he’s quite old. He actually played for John Philip Sousa himself, the ‘March King’. You’re so lucky to have a teacher of that caliber in Canton. I don’t have anyone like that where I’m at in Pennsylvania. I’d love to give you lessons, but I’m just too far away -- but I’ll be checking on you when I can come back here on holidays.” 

She had dried her eyes with the back of her hand and was now using it to count out a steady rhythm of four beats per imaginary measure, listening to the scale climb up and down, up and down, as the radio crooned in the background. She noticed that the boy was attempting to harmonize with parts of the melody.

The Tommy Dorsey tune ended with these words drifting away…

“Until there is no moon above…There’s no such thing as love…I’ll love but you.”

A peel of laughter burst from the doorway as his mom and dad finished their impromptu kitch-en dance, and Terry set his cornet down for a moment to join his aunt and brothers in clapping for them. The couple turned toward the living room in surprise, blushing at the applause, and took graceful bows for their private performance. 

“Merry Christmas, Terry,” his aunt said with a smile, and she couldn’t resist pulling him back into her arms to breathe in deeply the love of this tender little boy. 

As she held him in her tight embrace, she glanced up over his shoulder through the living room window. The glass was still steamed with the moisture of baking from the kitchen; the aroma of cinnamon, apples, and nutmeg mixed with strong pine scent of their little Christmas tree in the living room. Through the foggy pane she saw large, lazy snowflakes descending from the night sky. Another miracle. 

 

Summer, 1949 Marlboro Township

In the summer months, he often spent time on a remote farm belonging to his great-uncle. It lay in a stretch of cornfields and pumpkin patches – miles away from the city in a rural town-ship called Marlboro. Miles and miles of corn, in every direction. 

Far from the city, hard work, sunshine, and fireflies every night. He brought his cornet with him over his summer trips and practiced it out in the woods, out in the fields around the farm. Long walks along dirt roads, exploring, thinking, dreaming, wondering – that’s what the farm in Marlboro meant to him. 

“Come on, fire right down here over the plate; I’ll crush that thing to the moon.” Terry said, taunting his older brother to throw a straight-heat fastball over the ‘home plate’ at the sandlot ball field that they frequented in the summers behind an old chicken barn.  

His brother couldn’t resist the temptation to strike him out and blasted his fastball straight down the center, straight down the lane where Terry was waiting patiently. The sound that the ball made when he swung was a no-doubter. His brother didn’t even look back because the ball was still elevating when it passed the outfield and was lost in stands of corn far beyond their normal range of play. His younger brother and one of the neighbor kids spent the rest of the afternoon looking for the baseball – they didn’t have any to spare. 

As Terry ran the ‘bases’ – which were old slate shingles from a fallen barn and rounded third to touch ‘home plate’ – which was an old metal license plate from an abandoned Model T Ford, he noticed something in the high sunshine over their field. He slowed to a jog and gazed up-wards to see a pair of seagulls circling overhead, casting fidgeting shadows over their dusty ball field. 

“Hey John, lookie there, seagulls,” Terry said as he shielded his eyes and stepped across the old rusty license plate – concluding his afternoon homerun off his older brother. 

His brother looked up, shielded his eyes in the bright sunshine, and chuckled.

“Yea, weird… kind of far out here for those birds.” 

“Sorry about the ball,” Terry said, picking up the old wooden bat, while still looking out over the field beneath the flight path of the seagulls. It was all flat land out in the cornfields, but the horizon in this spot always seemed to garner his attention in a peculiar way. He took it in as much as he could, breathing in the summer air, and just looked out around him in a form of inner silence. This was a special place. 

Their sandlot baseball field was off Beeson, along another dirt road that didn’t have a name yet. Years later, near this same field, a bed of concrete and asphalt was poured for a high school parking lot; lines were painted to depict the gridlines of a football field to facilitate a practice field for a cornstalk marching band, The Marching Dukes of Marlington -- and a fledg-ling drum corps, The Ohio Brass Factory.  This would become the place where Terry taught other children to play music, march music, and become transformed by music and by love.       

Little did he know at that time what significance that area would play in his future life, in his dreams, in his destiny, and in the destiny of so many others.  

Spring, 1950 Near Myers Lake Park

“Terry, if you want something, work for it.” 

His Dad would tell him this, and it was based on his own life experience. He had worked hard for everything he had gotten before the war, and after. His Dad was a working-class man who sold produce and built houses; he had deep respect for the arts, and he instilled that respect in his sons. Respect for work, respect for yourself, respect for others – it was how his dad lived his life, and his son heard the words and saw the actions of his dad to back it up. It wasn’t difficult to follow such a clear example – he had his dad to thank for that. 

His Dad wasn’t on the sidelines of his young life; he was in the huddle with him, helping him call every play. His Dad was his mentor in Boy Scouting. His Dad was his mentor in church. His Dad was his mentor in all the sports teams he ever played on. Baseball, basketball, track – his dad was right there alongside him, encouraging him, advising him, being there for him. Mentor, friend, and fan – that was how he thought every dad was. 

He was a busy kid. He played sports year-round. He was a distinguished musician, recognized very early with exceptional musical talent – he was always first chair. He kept several jobs go-ing during all of this: helping in a veterinarian hospital, in retail clothing stores, in a supermar-ket. Dovetailing all these jobs was a paper route he maintained for years and several lawns he cared for by cutting grass with a push mower. 

“Remember the parable of the Talents Terry, remember it,” his dad told him in church one day. 

“You hear everyone saying about how this or that person is talented… right?”

“Sure, Dad. Yea, I’ve heard it.”

“Where do you think that word comes from… talented?” his dad asked. His finger was pressed against the onionskin paper of the Bible he was holding, and he was tapping it softly on the page of Matthew chapter 25.

A light turned on inside him when he saw his dad’s finger on that page. He immediately com-prehended, making a quantum leap in understanding in mere seconds. 

The young boy spoke the words from memory:

“For to everyone who has will more be given...”

His father smiled.

“Terry, exactly. Give it away son. Giving away our talents is how we increase them.”

 

Summer, 1972 Canton Ohio

It was already hot in the inner city of Canton on a Saturday morning in early June. A steady stream of heavy traffic was moving through town, making a sound that you tuned out and didn’t hear after a while. The air had a gray film floating in it, the typical smog from the gas guzzling cars that ruled the crowded city streets in the early 1970s.  Along the train tracks, several rail-road cars tagged with graffiti awaited transport to locations unknown. A distant police siren blended in with the din of street traffic and the sound of quick footsteps from someone hurrying home. 

A young man was walking briskly down over the tracks, and he tread with a different kind of step. He had a slight forward lean in his posture and was carrying something under his arm. As he walked along you could see his hand tapping out a drum cadence on the front pockets of his jeans. He wasn’t tapping randomly; he was drumming out flawless single, double, and triple paradiddles with the tips of his fingers cupped like flippers.

The kid was a scrapper. That meant he was tough, he was resourceful, he was street-smart and knew his way in the neighborhood down by the railroad tracks. He lived in a small, rented du-plex with his mom on Rowland Street. His parents had divorced years before when he was little. His mom supported them from her job at the cafeteria at Aultman hospital. He was a kid with plans after graduation. He was looking for factory work, and if that didn’t pan out, he was going into the Navy to do something with electronics – he wasn’t sure yet. 

He did alright in high school at McKinley and had found a niche for himself in band. He was a naturally gifted percussionist, but that gift was coupled with a strong and self-motivated work ethic and a very deep sense of integrity. He was good; no one denied that. But what made him outstanding was the work he put into it. He practiced hard and was demanding of himself. By the time he was a senior, he was running the entire percussion section, doing the job of a paid faculty member and doing it for free just because it needed to be done. He spent weeks and months of his own time perfecting his art, transcribing cadences, writing cadences, studying cadences, practicing cadences. He was a natural leader, but he was self-effacing and didn’t do things for recognition or attention. That was just who he was. The kid was someone you could trust and count on. And none of this was missed by his band director – who from a distance, quietly observed everything that he did. Ray didn’t really think about music beyond high school. When he was handed his diploma, he figured the drumsticks just got put away. He was ok with that; it’s just how life was down by the railroad tracks. 

He quickened his pace into a jog. He was carrying a carton of Lawson’s ice cream home for his graduation party, and he wanted to get it there before it melted. The party his mom held for him at home consisted of cake, some ice cream, and a few family guests that brought him cards. His Dad was there too. That was everything he wanted in the world all in one place. 

It was later in the day that his mom called up to him in his room…

“Ray, your band director Mr. Frenz and his wife are here to see you.”

He was surprised when he heard this. His director had asked if he could stop over for his gradu-ation party. He said it would be ‘fine,’ but he didn’t expect him to show up. He knew how grown-ups often said they would do nice things and then not deliver. It wasn’t a big deal to him; it’s just how things worked. For Mr. Frenz to show up, in his neighborhood, in his house, took him by surprise. He headed down the stairs to find Mr. and Mrs. Frenz talking with his parents by the remnants of what had been his graduation cake. 

“Mr. Frenz, what are you doing down here?” Ray asked, blushing slightly – a little nervous at having his teacher in his house – it was all an unexpected dynamic. When he used the word ‘down’ in his question, he wasn’t referring to the downstairs of his house. He was referring to the ‘down’ of his ethnic neighborhood, a part of town people didn’t usually pass through as visi-tors. In his neighborhood, you kept your guard up. 

“Ray, I need your help with something in my trunk.”

“Sure.” Ray replied, just like countless times before. 

They went out to the band director’s car, and the trunk was opened to reveal something that Ray was very familiar with. He looked into the trunk, moved a few parts around, pulled a few of them out.  

“This is for you Ray. I want you to have this.” 

In a few minutes he was assembling a five-piece black marble Dixie drum set on his front porch. It had a lot of mileage on it. The drumheads were showing wear, but to Ray, it was the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“Ray, your talent is something I don’t want you to walk away from. I want to give this away to you, but I don’t want you to think it’s free.”

Ray’s expression of bewilderment and gratitude became intertwined with his curiosity about what Mr. Frenz had just told him… about giving away, about this not being free.

“Ray, I charge you with the duty… that if you are ever in a position to do something like this for someone else… that you will do it… that you will give it away to them.”

Ray attempted to respond with words, but his voice was choked with a wave of emotions. All he could do was nod in response. The band director noticed that since they had pulled out the old drum set from his trunk, his former student hadn’t stopped touching it. As he stood there beside him in the hot sunlight, he saw how the tips of his right hand sat delicately on the ragged drumhead… as if he were unable to let go of it. His band director was there for him in a new way, not just as a teacher, but as someone closer to him, a friend. 

“Look, I’m going to stay in touch with you Ray. I’m going to call you occasionally, and I’ll want you to come with me on some gigs. In fact, I have a wedding party coming up next weekend. I want you there.”

Ray nodded again, his hand on the face of the snare. All he could do was look at how the sun-light ignited the black marble of the drums and reflected wild bands of light around his feet. When the band director looked at the bands of light around them on the ground, he could see more than beautiful light. He could see a glimpse of a different kind of life for his student, something yet beyond Ray’s ability to envision on that hot, sunny summer day.